


The Most Bizarre Fucking Thing You've Ever Seen

by wanderingoverthewords



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous Relationships, During Canon, POV Second Person, Supply Runs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingoverthewords/pseuds/wanderingoverthewords
Summary: While out on a supply run, you discover a Big Daddy that defends a grown man instead of a little girl.
Relationships: Augustus Sinclair & Subject Delta, Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	The Most Bizarre Fucking Thing You've Ever Seen

**Author's Note:**

> Characters: unnamed (and genderless) Rapture survivor, Augustus Sinclair, Splicers, Subject Delta, Grace Holloway; mentioned Little Sisters, Tobias Riefers, Sofia Lamb, Eleanor Lamb.
> 
> Pairings: The nature of Sinclair and Delta’s relationship is entirely up to you. Have fun with it.
> 
> Warnings: violence, blood, gore, death, firearm usage, technical drug usage (EVE); nothin’ Delta doesn’t do in canon. Mentions of other drug taking (ADAM) and potential child murder.
> 
> Notes: First BioShock fic. Small AU(?)-ish thing where Sinclair doesn’t sit on his arse all day in the train. Also, to note: I’m not saying he’d be some sort of action star, but I adamantly refuse to believe Sinclair would be useless in a fight (unless, of course, he’s vastly outnumbered), considering the gun on his person when he greets Delta in the train station, the ammo in his bunker and the fact that it’s been eight years since BioShock 1 and the dude’s fine and well and not spliced. But, obviously, he ain’t much compared to Delta, so…
> 
> All material belongs to Irrational Games.

You’re investigating the Fishbowl Diner down in Pauper’s Drop for supplies when you see them.

You’re out back in the kitchen, hoping some decent food has been left behind; you find, of course, potted meat, which is really as good as it gets in Pauper’s Drop, so you put those away in your makeshift bag. One can’t really expect much from a place named after one man’s suicide, you remind yourself as you get to your knees to check the lower cupboards.

Just then, you hear the distinct _thump-thump-thump_ of an incoming Big Daddy, and you freeze. A shot of fear stabs into your heart because you have a brain in your head, one that _hasn’t_ been spliced to hell and back, and so you know if there’s one thing one does not simply fuck with, it’s a Big Daddy. But then you remind yourself that so long as you don’t get too close to the Little Sister and you don’t bother the Big Daddy, then the Big Daddy won’t bother you.

You listen out for any humming or singing or any delighted cheering about ADAM being nearby, but there is none, so you reckon this one must not be on the job right now. You do, however, hear an adult man speak; you can’t make out what he says (something about ‘up top’, supplies and a code, but you aren’t sure) or who the voice belongs to, so you dismiss it as a Splicer and figure the Big Daddy must just be out for a stroll.

They do that, you’re sure. What else have they got to do around this dump if they don’t have a Little Sister to escort?

There are footsteps outside, faint but noticed, and you panic, quickly gathering your findings and jumping away to hide behind the fryer in the middle of the room, the only place you can hide (because you’re not stupid, so you won’t leap into the fridge). You clutch your bag of cans in one fist, purposefully making the bundle as small as you can to minimise noise.

As the signature steps of the Big Daddy change direction (you’d seen a staircase going up the side of the diner, and a bridge, but why would a Big Daddy go up there?), you hear the kitchen’s door slide open, and someone gingerly steps into the diner.

You can feel their hesitation from where you’re knelt, which you totally understand; Splicers are everywhere in Rapture, can’t even take a piss without the risk of one sneaking up on you.

You hear them walk over to the shelves you’ve just ransacked, and if Rapture weren’t such a hellhole, you would’ve felt a bit bad for taking all the food before they could get some, but it is, so you don’t.

Curiosity strikes and you take the risk in peeking out, just as they finish looking through the shelves. They don’t bother checking the fridges behind you, going for the dining area instead, so you catch a sight of their face, and you recognise him: Augustus Sinclair.

You’ve seen him on posters and you know of some of the shady things he’s done in Rapture. He used to own the Sinclair Deluxe, the hotel nearby, but word has it Grace Holloway kicked him out and took over, and you almost pity the poor bastard, but - like most of Rapture’s businessmen - you’re sure he probably had it coming.

He’s holding a wrench over one shoulder, apparently his weapon of choice. You do see he has a gun in a holster, so you keep yourself out of sight, lest he become trigger-happy. Misery loves company, but no two survivors of Rapture are ever happy to see each other - at least, not in your experience.

Sinclair pauses briefly and looks up as dust falls from the ceiling, something up top bringing it down, and he frowns lightly as he mutters something about being careful up there. He brushes dust off of his hair.

Besides the fragile ceiling, he doesn’t seem to notice anything is amiss in the kitchen, so he doesn’t look back as he goes through the door to the dining area.

You don’t see him for a few moments; you figure he can only be checking the booths outside of the kitchen door, and you’re proven right when he finally falls back into view as he’s checking the other seats in the room.

You shimmy around the middle island, avoiding his gaze by hiding behind the stove now; he doesn’t notice a thing, for you see him double take at something by the wall, and he disappears from sight again as he goes over to have a look.

It appears that Sinclair has found something.

“Well, look,” he says, “looks like ol’ Tobias made up his mind about that code. Shame he never got to tell nobody.” There’s a pause, you swear you hear a pen click and a crinkle of paper, then the sound of a button snapping open and shut. “Mission com _plete.”_ There’s a beat, then he adds, “Oh, ah, you aren’t usin’ this anymore, are you, Tobias?”

It occurs to you then that Sinclair is, in fact, talking to a corpse.

You cringe.

There’s a moment of silence, then you hear the sound of a shotgun being cocked, and you remind yourself again not to get his attention because there’s a big fucking difference between the piddly little gun he’s got in the holster and a fucking _shotgun._

“Been a while since I’ve used one of these…” He says to himself. “But it’ll do. Now…let’s see what else this place has got to offer.”

Sinclair appears in the window as he takes off his reading glasses and lets them hang around his neck. He doubles over to observe the cakes in the glass case, mutters “Now, _those_ are _long gone,”_ to himself, then he sets his wrench and shotgun on the countertop and kneels to open the cash register on the ground, and you almost hiss out a curse.

You’d been so desperate for food, you’d gone straight for it when you’d gotten here. You were going to check the counter next, but he’s beaten you to it.

Damn it; and that crème cake in the Circus of Values had looked so good, too.

“This’ll come in handy, I’m sure,” you hear him say as he digs out the dollars stashed inside and stands back up.

He flicks through them to count them, gives an unimpressed but resigned hum at the sum, then pops back into view as he stands, folding the money over and pushing it into one of the pockets of the pack at his waist. He ducks down behind the counter to check for more supplies.

Well, that would have been nice to have. Maybe if you sneak up on him and pistol-whip him, you could have that money. Just make sure the cans aren’t rattling in your bag; you’ll make it work.

You quickly see, however, that he’s actually done you a favour, for dust steadily starts falling from the ceiling in little bursts and the lights begin to flicker, and you both hear footsteps up top that are definitely not the Big Daddy’s (who, as you listen closely, is still nearby, but hasn’t come back down).

Without warning, one of the unstable parts of the roof caves in, and a figure comes falling through.

Splicer.

You’re suddenly very glad you hadn’t gone out front.

The Splicer rushes the counter, goes to climb over it to get to Sinclair, who had stumbled back in shock as the ceiling had collapsed but has since regained his composure, survival instincts kicking in. The Splicer has a pipe in hand that they raise up to bring down upon him.

The wrench on the countertop is quickly snatched up and used like a baseball bat, swung hard enough against the Splicer’s skull that they don’t get back up after they’d been knocked aside and off the counter, falling down to the floor, blocked from your view. They’ve fallen onto the cash register, it seems, if the little _ding_ it gives is any indication.

Sinclair gives a sigh as he holds a hand to his chest, no doubt trying to calm his pounding heart.

“Free heart attack with every meal,” he whispers, and you admit that’s a good one so you nearly snort, but you hold it back lest he mistake you for another Splicer.

Unfortunately for him (and perhaps you, if this goes in the direction you think it will), it isn’t over, and both of you look upwards as laughter sounds from above.

Sinclair swaps his wrench for the shotgun, eyes trained on the ceiling.

Two more Splicers fall down through the hole and are quick to move forwards, one trying the same as the fallen and climbing over the counter, the other actually trying to go around it instead. They yell things at Sinclair, about how he’s defying the lamb or something.

You wonder if they mean Dr. Lamb, but, even still, you shrug it off as typical Splicer nonsense.

Like a sane man, Sinclair doesn’t reply to anything they say; he punches the Splicer trying to climb over the counter, which pushes them back enough to give Sinclair time to aim his shotgun and shoot the other Splicer in the head before it can get too close.

The Splicer falls, then Sinclair takes a few steps back to create distance as he turns to the counter-climber and gives them the same treatment.

For a few moments, there’s quiet in the diner - and then another section of the ceiling gives way, and two more Splicers come falling through, and they rush Sinclair.  
.  
Sinclair curses shakily, cocking his gun.

(You’re distracted only very briefly when you realise there’s been a turret going off up top and there’re voices and gunshots up there too, and you spare only a single thought for the Big Daddy up there before turning your full attention back to Sinclair, whose situation is infinitely more interesting right now.)

Before either of them have a chance to reach him, Sinclair’s delivered shots to each - it takes four bullets in total, since he misses their heads the first tries and shoots them in the shoulders, before finally landing two successful headshots, which take the Splicers down.

Even you, for a second, hope that it’s over. However, it still isn’t, and you can only pity the poor bastard - especially when he goes to shoot again, and the shotgun’s trigger clicks uselessly.

“Oh, come _on,”_ you hear Sinclair say, resigned, and he throws the shotgun down before taking up his wrench again, but you can see he isn’t as confident when he has a melee weapon.

He has the good sense, you think, to know he’s most likely about to die.

He manages to smack one Splicer, who is armed with a wooden board, first, snagging their cheek before taking advantage of their stumbling and bringing the wrench down on their head, no doubt cracking their skull and making them fall to the ground.

Another one, however, armed with a pipe, is luckier, just slower, and they then take advantage of the distraction to smack Sinclair in the back, which makes him cry out in pain. When Sinclair stumbles and goes to turn to them, their fist socks him right in the face, which has him stumbling again, one hand to his nose.

He surprises you, however, in that he doesn’t let his hurt nose distract him. He swings his wrench at the Splicer, catches them in the side of the neck, which makes them let out a horrible retching noise, and Sinclair smacks them in the right cheek, then the left, then puts them down by hammering the wrench down upon their head.

A gunshot goes off and Sinclair dives down behind the counter for cover; a window of the diner is shattered and the responsible Splicer’s ugly laughter becomes just a bit louder. They continue to keep their distance, it seems, and let their brethren without firearms to have more of the fun because more Splicers shove their way into the diner.

One goes straight behind the counter, and clearly Sinclair kicks them in the leg because they go down, and clearly he cracks this one’s skull too because they don’t get back up, then Sinclair’s jumping up from the floor and smacking away a Splicer that tries to climb over the counter, but doing this distracts him from their team mates.

His wrench is grabbed and taken from him, and you really don’t know Augustus Sinclair very well, but you know that without that and without his shotgun - and with only an apparently useless gun left, since he hasn’t taken that out the entire time - he is well and truly fucked.

He apparently knows that too, for he goes to turn to run into the kitchen, but a shot hits the wall near his head, and the flinch and stumble he does in response gives a Splicer ample time to grab his shirt and pull his back against the counter.

He gags as his collar digs into his throat, snaps at them to get _off o’ me,_ but they defy him by then grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back. His own wrench is held against his neck, further stopping any attempts to wiggle free, and the Splicers come to surround him, trapping his arms, each brandishing a weapon that’s going to make Sinclair’s somehow-well-put-together appearance real…unfortunate to lay one’s eyes upon, to put it kindly.

“Get _off,_ ya _goddamn_ \- No, no, _no, no, no!”_ He shouts out, which is really all he can do in this moment, his voice gradually cutting off as the Splicers dig his wrench into his neck to choke him, and you go to turn your head away cause, hey, _you’re_ not the sociopath here, you don’t want to watch him get gutted.

However, no gutting happens, for all parties - including yourself - are suddenly distracted by the distinctive and gut-twisting _roar_ and the _THUMPTHUMPTHUMP_ ing footsteps of a Big Daddy.

A very, _very_ pissed off Big Daddy.

A very, _very_ pissed off Big Daddy, who shakes the earth when it suddenly comes crashing through the rightmost hole in the ceiling, and that - well, if you’re truly honest, that nearly makes you shit your pants.

A Big Daddy is bad enough when it’s out strolling, but now? Now, the bloody things are falling from the fucking _sky._

(Come to think of it, you’d nearly forgotten about that Big Daddy that had literally gone over your head.)

Only one Splicer is too dumb (or maybe too, y’know, _spliced)_ to turn around to look, and this is the unfortunate bastard that gets impaled on the Big Daddy’s drill, in through the back and out through the chest, and the drill whirrs to life and sprays the Splicer’s companions with their blood.

The Splicer’s body shakes as the drill spins, removing their insides oh-so kindly for them, then the Big Daddy throws the corpse away. Its aim is real good, for the Splicer goes flying through the window and into the kitchen, where it lands nearby. Their eyes are still open and they stare right at you.

You swallow the lump in your throat and peek out at the Big Daddy again.

It goes to absolute town on the Splicers, who all deem Sinclair too small a fish to fry and turn their attention to the Big Daddy instead. One is dumb enough to throw themselves at it, clambering onto its back like some poor attempt at becoming a Little Sister, and the Big Daddy relinquishes its drill and grabs the back of their head in its large hand and throws them right off, through the outer window, with such strength that you’re sure you hear a _crack_ as the Splicer lands, so you’re quite certain that one isn’t getting back up.

From there, the Big Daddy thrusts its other hand out at two Splicers who run out from behind the counter, and they’re hit with a dose of Electro Bolt each, convulsing and shaking madly on the spot and letting out twin _guh-guh-guh-guh-guh_ s. You’re surprised, since you’ve never seen Big Daddies use Plasmids like that, but you don’t have time to think on it; the Big Daddy takes up its drill again and takes the moment to run it through the shaking Splicers’ bodies.

As the other Splicers all attempt to take down the metal monstrosity, it comes to your attention that somebody is coming into the kitchen, and you look over to see Sinclair on his elbows and knees, crawling into the room as the door slides open and closed for him.

He sits in the corner and presses his back to the wall, panting, a thin trickle of blood making its way from his nostril to his lips from where the Splicer had clocked him one. He appears to have gotten his weapons back in the chaos, since the wrench is back in his right hand and he’s cradling the shotgun to his chest.

A Splicer falls into the room and Sinclair immediately panics, flinching away from it and smacking it once with his wrench, then it dawns on him that he’s actually just been spooked by a corpse, one of the Big Daddy’s new victims, and he lets out a sheepish “Oh,” combined with a sigh of relief.

There are more gunshots and you lift your gaze to see that gun-toting Splicer who had tried to shoot Sinclair now shooting at the Big Daddy, who lets out a muffled shout that sounds more furious than hurt, and it exchanges its drill for a rivet gun and turns to shoot a rivet at the Splicer.

Bullseye; the rivet hits right between the eyes, and the Splicer is out before the poor fucker could’ve even understood what had happened.

You watch the Big Daddy electrify and burn and shoot and impale the Splicers, and you wonder what the _hell_ has pissed it off so much. You hadn’t heard a Little Sister earlier nor had you ever seen one in the midst of the many (twelve, you count twelve Splicers, minus the ones Sinclair had killed) Splicers that had invaded the diner, so you don’t think any of the Splicers have had a dose of ADAM recently.

It dawns on you then: Sinclair.

You look over at him, at where he’s hiding from the Big Daddy - because of _course_ he’s doing that, it makes sense now.

Clearly, ol’ Augustus had done something to tick the Daddy off, and the Big Daddy had heard his shouts of pain and protest and had come running. It isn’t the _Splicers_ the Big Daddy wants, it’s _Sinclair._

 _Well,_ you think as you shrug, _that wrench isn’t saving him now._

Honestly, short of harvesting a Little Sister in front of it, you don’t know what Augustus could have done to make a Big Daddy hunt him like this. You’re starting to think that might be what he’s done, considering there aren’t any Little Sisters in the area. He doesn’t _seem_ like he’s had any ADAM, but, well, looks could be deceiving, couldn’t they?

…Do Big Daddies…hold grudges? You suppose they do, in a way. They certainly don’t like the people who try to take away their Little Sisters. It makes you wonder: if a Big Daddy targeted someone, and that someone - by some miracle - had managed to get away, would the Big Daddy recognise that person if they saw them again later?

Well - _you’re_ not going out to test that theory. If anything, Augustus is doing that for you right now. The Big Daddy is fighting a horde just to get Sinclair’s blood on its hands, and _only_ its hands.

He’d impressed you before, but now you just think he’s an idiot. Christ, if a Big Daddy had been coming after _you_ like that, you would’ve been long gone by now, not huddled in the corner with useless firearms, hoping it won’t come to find out where you’ve gone.

Finally, the Splicers come to an end, and the Big Daddy is left behind in the dining area, surrounded by the bodies. With a low groan, it steps over them, checks behind the counter, then makes its hulking way toward the kitchen’s entrance.

You adjust your hiding place by shimmying around the island, not only to avoid the Big Daddy’s detection (it’s pissed off enough, let’s be honest), but because you’re honestly quite scared of what’s going to happen next. You’ve heard about the shady stuff Sinclair has done, but, hell, he didn’t do them to _you_ personally, so you don’t really have a _desire_ to see him die. You are, however, quite curious on how this is going to go, so you can’t help but watch. Morbid curiosity and all that.

The Big Daddy moves aside the body of the Splicer that had scared Sinclair, lifting it by the back of its shirt and dropping it away from the door, then comes to stand in the doorway, above Sinclair.

You watch closely, holding your breath, waiting for the Big Daddy to get its drill back out and send Sinclair’s innards flying or for it to burn him alive like it had done to a Splicer out front. You’re not the only one, it seems to you, since Sinclair is staring up at it.

And then, it happens: the Big Daddy bends down…and offers Sinclair its hand.

You feel your jaw drop.

_“Phew!”_

You look at Sinclair as he gets to his knees, hand going to the Big Daddy’s, fingers barely wrapping around three of its, and he’s helped to his feet, shotgun tucked under his arm and wrench transferred to the left hand.

“Now, chief, I thought I was a goner for _sure,”_ Sinclair says, all chirpy with Southern charm. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Just kiddin’, sport. I had every bit of faith in you.”

The Big Daddy lets out a small rumble.

“Ah - now, look here, chief.” Sinclair rifles his pocket to take out a slip of paper, which he shows to the Big Daddy, and this is officially the most bizarre fucking thing you’ve ever seen. “The code to Fontaine Clinics, in _literal_ black an’ white. Ol’ Tobias was friendly in handin’ it over. Didn’t cost me a cent.”

You wonder, if Big Daddies could laugh, if this one would find that funny. It doesn’t make a noise, so you can’t be sure.

“So, now, we can push on.” He replaces the paper, then asks of his…companion? “Did you find anything good up top? Namely, some ammo for your good pal?”

He pats the gun in its holster, and it makes sense why he hadn’t used it before.

The Big Daddy rumbles again, which is apparently a negative sound, for Sinclair deflates.

“No, huh?” Sinclair sighs through his nose, hangs his head, then looks to the shotgun and takes it out from under his arm and holds it out for the Big Daddy. “Here, sport. This might be better suited to you. Fair warnin’, though, it’s empty, so that’s two sorts of ammo we need to keep an eye out for. Sorry.”

The Big Daddy looks at the weapon, then it uses one hand to push it back toward Sinclair.

You can’t believe you’re thinking this, but you agree with the Big Daddy _(ha!)_ , Sinclair needs it more.

Sinclair opens his mouth to respond to that proposal, but is stopped when the Big Daddy presents to him a little box of shells, evidently collected from up top.

His eyebrows rise up in surprise and he chuckles.

“Well. I guess Lady Luck is on _your_ side today, huh, sport?” He takes the ammo and loads it into his gun, adding as he does so, “Let’s hope she changes her mind about me.”

The Big Daddy lets out a rumble, which…Is it replying? Do Big Daddies reply or do they just make noises for no reason? Christ, you don’t know, you’re not an expert, and this one is…different. Not just in how it looks, but the fact that it’s all buddy-buddy with Augustus Sinclair.

You watch, still completely dumbfounded and wondering if someone slipped something into that coffee you’d found earlier, as the Big Daddy takes out a clump of dollars and - it’s apparently been decided that Sinclair is in charge of money, for the Big Daddy pushes the bills into one of the pouches at Sinclair’s waist, putting it with the money Sinclair had collected earlier, using one large finger to tuck them in, and now _this,_ _this_ is actually the most bizarre fucking thing you’ve ever seen.

“Great work, champ,” Sinclair says as he tucks both the wrench and the shotgun back under his arm and straightens the dollars so they would fit better, then buttons the pouch back up. “Dinner’s on you tonight, huh?”

The Big Daddy doesn’t reply _(does_ it _reply?_ Does it _talk?)_ and instead just shows Sinclair a little bottle of aspirin, which it holds out in such a way that it tells Sinclair it wants him to have it (or, at least, carry it).

“You really did find the good stuff,” he says as he pops one, then rubs his head as the bottle is pushed into another pouch.

The Big Daddy then makes some horrible sucking sound as its arm almost pulses and it wiggles the fingers of the hand it had used its Plasmids with, and it takes you a moment to realise it’s just taken in some EVE, which is apparently its way of communicating it had found an EVE hypo.

“Best to be prepared, for sure.”

Finally, the Big Daddy shows Sinclair a pep bar, which it gently _(gently,_ of all fucking ways) pushes against Sinclair’s chest, indicating it wants him to take it.

“Aw. Well, thanks, sport,” Sinclair says as he takes it and looks it over. “This’ll help with the tummy rumbles. Not quite the fine dinin’ I’m used to, but in today’s economy, I’ll take what I can get, right?”

The Big Daddy doesn’t reply to that comment, just points a large finger at Sinclair’s face.

“Hm? Oh, _that.”_ Sinclair - ever the gentleman - takes out a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his nose, slipping the pep bar into the pouch with the aspirin as he does so, letting it stick out. “Don’t you worry about that; a lucky shot, I assure you. Here, spick and span, good as new.”

He shows the Big Daddy his clean face, free of blood, and it - oh, well, no, _this_ is actually the most bizarre fucking thing you’ve ever seen because the Big Daddy then, very carefully, without hurting him, pats Sinclair on the top of his head.

It’s apparently done this before because Sinclair bows his head forward slightly when the Big Daddy’s hand hovers over him, ready to take the weight of its palm, as if he expects it, then he’s mindfully pushing at the Big Daddy’s wrist, and the head-patting stops.

“Wha - hey, now, take it easy, chief. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but hair care products ain’t exactly common around here, so I’d appreciate it if you helped me keep my hair from becomin’ amiss.” He pats at his hair himself, smoothing it back down. “It’s bad enough those Splicers tried to yank it right out at the roots. Still just barely clingin’ to the record of Cleanest Shirt in Rapture, I don’t wanna lose out on Neatest Hair too.”

He gestures to his shirt, which, by some miracle, hasn’t been doused in Splicer blood.

“Look at that, still good.”

The Big Daddy lets out a groan of some kind.

“Much obliged, kid.”

 _Kid!_ He calls it _kid!_ Has he _seen_ what he’s talking to?!

Before Sinclair can say anything else, a voice cuts him off and makes you jump, though luckily not so much that you leap out of hiding, and thankfully your cans don’t rattle, so you’re in the clear for now.

“Eleanor’s grown now, baby-snatcher,” comes over the microphone, and you’re pretty sure that’s the voice of Grace Holloway. “Even after what you _did_ to her, Dr. Lamb found a way to _shape that girl_ into somethin’ _perfect._ Somethin’ _holy._ She’s a daughter to us all… _Nobody_ in Rapture will shelter _you_ now.”

Sinclair lowers his head from where he’d been looking up at the ceiling and scoffs. He shakes his head and takes a step toward the Big Daddy, waving his hand.

 _“Gracie’s_ got the wrong idea…You’re not _responsible_ for turnin’ Eleanor into a Little Sister. Big Daddies are just slaves,” he prods the Big Daddy in the chest with one finger, “and _you_ only recently broke _free.”_

The Big Daddy lets out a quiet rumbling noise, to which Sinclair responds by nudging it with his elbow.

“Chin up, kid. There’s _someone_ in Rapture lookin’ out for you.”

He winks at it and cocks his head as a gesture to himself - and receives, for his troubles, another pat on the head, which has him waving his hand to ward off the notion and reminding the Big Daddy what he’d just said about the hair.

You have no idea what Sinclair had been on about, but then you haven’t had any idea what’s going on since the Big Daddy helped Sinclair to his feet, so being lost isn’t exactly new here. But you do know that this display of…whatever almost makes you smile.

“Now - let’s get a move on over to the clinic, shall we? I reckon we’ll find a way through to the pawn shop through there,” Sinclair says. “Sooner we do that, sooner we get that camera, an’ the sooner we can _do somethin’_ about the _mess_ that big galoot has made of my hotel.”

The Big Daddy gives him a careful push on the shoulder blade to tell him to go first, clearly so his Big Daddy…bodyguard can keep an eye on him.

Honestly, you don’t know why they split up in the first place, never mind efficiency in supply-gathering. Hell, if it’d been _you_ with a Big Daddy to protect you, well, you’d never let it out of your _sight_ \- or more accurately, _you_ would never be out of _its_ sight.

The push makes Sinclair step forward to catch himself before he stumbles, not expecting it, then he looks back to the Big Daddy to smile at it.

“An’ who said chivalry’s dead, huh, chief?” Sinclair jokes, swinging his wrench up onto his left shoulder and holding his shotgun in the other hand as he walks.

You quickly shuffle to remain out of sight, then take the quickest opportunity to peek out at this display again.

There’s a moment of pause that you - and you never thought you’d say this - share with the Big Daddy, for both of you see the giant, grimy handprint the Big Daddy has left on Sinclair’s right shoulder blade, and you had both just heard him comment on the state of his clothes.

The Big Daddy looks at its left hand, looks at the stain, then flexes its fingers as soft flames of the Incinerate Plasmid lick the surface of its glove. With the other hand, it takes out its drill, trying to keep both hands busy so its grimy gloves are out of view, so Sinclair won’t catch on.

It then follows after Sinclair with the usual _thump-thump-thump_ ing footsteps of any ordinary Big Daddy.

Except this one isn’t ordinary, it can’t be at all, for it isn’t following a little girl, but a fully grown man. You think that Sinclair has used the Hypnotize Big Daddy Plasmid on it, but then you remember that hypnotized Big Daddies glow green, and the frosted glass of this one’s helmet remains yellow. Which means…

You step a little out of hiding, just to watch them leave; it’s weird how new yet familiar the image of them going is, Sinclair out in front with his wrench and shotgun and the Big Daddy trailing along behind him. It reminds you idly of the ordinary version of this scenario, the way Little Sisters will merrily skip through the horrors of Rapture with their syringes of blood and their own tin soldiers to protect them.

You hear Sinclair say something about the Big Daddy wanting to show him something and they both go back up top and over the bridge, where the Big Daddy had gone earlier. You hear a shuttered and muffled voice that can only come from one of those audio tapes you’ve seen laying around (it amuses you for a moment, imagining them leaning over the tape to listen to it together), then Sinclair says something about the wrong end of the stick, and they come back down.

Worried, you duck down again, but they disappear in another direction, the _click-clack_ of Sinclair’s wingtips and the _thump-thump_ of the Big Daddy’s boots fading with every step they take.

And just like that, they’re gone, and you’re free to come out of hiding, which you do with a severe case of bewilderment.

You don’t know what the _fuck_ just happened and you don’t know how the hell Augustus Sinclair has obtained himself a Big Daddy protector, if a Big Daddy has accidentally gotten bonded to a grown man instead of a little girl (it isn’t a slave, Sinclair had said, so it’s a…what exactly?) and how the hell that can happen, but you do know one thing, and a part of you hopes the Splicers _don’t_ know because it will help clear the way for you on your supply run. You hope the handprint on Sinclair’s back won’t help them figure it out.

But, well, at least _you_ know now, for future reference, in case you see them again: Augustus Sinclair is off-limits.


End file.
